


If I Die Young

by Always_Worth_It, Lalijinx



Series: In Another Life [3]
Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Captain America (Movies), Incredible Hulk (2008), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Childhood, Future Character Death, Implied Future Character Death, Kidnapping, Suicidal Thoughts, Tearjerker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Always_Worth_It/pseuds/Always_Worth_It, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalijinx/pseuds/Lalijinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> I've had just enough time </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There's a moment that comes when there's no hope, and all you are is alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sharp Knife of a Short Life

\---------------

1-- _Bruce_

 

_And I'll be wearing white, when I come into your kingdom_

_I'm as green as the ring on my little cold finger,_

_I've never known the lovin' of a man_

_But it sure felt nice when he was holdin' my hand_

 

Bruce came to sprawled nearly naked in a crater of rubble. Exhausted, he lay there in shock, staring blankly past the few trees still standing, into a cloudless sky. He had no idea where he was, or how he got there. 

 

What had happened? He had suddenly lost himself, everything becoming blurry and indistinct. His memory was faulty, tainted with waves of emotion, like nothing he had ever experienced. All he could remember was all-consuming rage and a sudden haze of green. 

 

He could still feel it, simmering just under his skin, an itch he couldn’t scratch. He felt stretched out, pulled tight, like his skin no longer fit. He didn’t feel like _himself_. It was like some other person had taken up residence in the back of his mind, taunting him to _smash everything in his way_. 

 

He felt like a monster. He had become some other _thing,_ something vicious and out of control, a creature so uncontrollable that he had left a trail of devastation and destruction behind him. 

 

How could he have lost control like that? What had he done, what had he caused? He had _hurt_ people, a voice whispered in the back of his head. Something he had sworn never to do. Not after his father. Not after what his father had done to his mother, to him.

 

He was going to save people. His work was supposed to _save_ lives, not destroy them. That was the whole point of the serum. To help the troops, to protect them. To keep them from dying. And somehow, he had done the exact opposite. He had created a monster. He had taken lives, not saved them. 

 

Betty had been there. She had witnessed the creation of the monster. She had almost _died_. He could have killed Betty. She would never forgive him. She _shouldn’t_ ever forgive him. He couldn’t, hadn’t protected her from himself. She would never be safe with him now.

 

Just like he had never been safe before. Just like his mother had never been safe from his father. 

 

He had just been _so sure._ He had been so confident in his conclusions, his calculations. He had been arrogant enough to _test his theory on himself._ God, what had he been thinking? Was he really so green to have made such a stupid, rookie mistake?

 

He had ruined the one good thing he had. The start of a better life, his new beginning. His future had seemed so bright. Betty had stuck by him, helped him, encouraged him. _Accepted_ him. She was his partner in everything. He had even started thinking about _rings._ But all that was over now.

 

He had gotten only a few years of peace. A few years where he had allowed himself to hope for the future and to dream of happiness.  He had lived a few years where, for the first time ever, he thought he might actually get it.

 

The sound of gunshots echoed faintly in his mind, underneath a burning roar of anger. Oh God, he was a fugitive now, wasn’t he? The military had shot at him. They had tried to kill him. They had followed him, hunted him. His future was gone, smashed to pieces like a fist to the mirror. His life was crumbling before his eyes, and he was powerless to stop any of it.

 

He had nothing left. Betty was gone. Everything he had worked towards was now burned to the ground, ash in the wind. 

 

Why should he run then? He was dangerous--an unpredictable, uncontrollable threat. He had already caused so much hurt, so much damage. He was everything he had always tried not to be. 

 

The military would find him. Soon, he guessed. General Ross was sure to be involved now, with the danger Bruce had posed to his daughter. Ross wouldn’t stop searching until his quarry, the threat, _Bruce_ , was found and neutralized.

 

And Bruce...would let them. 

 

\-------------------

 

2-- _Natasha_

 

_So put on your best, boys, and I'll wear my pearls_

_What I never did is done_

_A penny for my thoughts, oh, no, I'll sell 'em for a dollar_

_They're worth so much more after I'm a goner_

_And maybe then you'll hear the words I've been singin'_

_Funny when you're dead how people start listenin'_

 

The Black Widow glared fiercely at her opponent, heedless of her wounds. Her dress was torn to shreds, her fancy jewelry long since lost. It must have fallen off at some point during the chase or subsequent fight, but at the moment, a few million dollars in stolen gems was the least of her concerns. 

 

This op had not gone as planned. She had never failed a mission before. But this one hadn’t even really been a mission, she mused. It had been a trap. 

 

And she had fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.

 

She was in an alley, back to the wall, with no conceivable way out of the situation. She scanned the surroundings to see if there was a way to use the location against the assassin who was here to kill her. She ran dozens of scenarios through her head, scrolling through every form of martial arts, hand-to-hand combat, and weapons training she had. 

 

There was no way out, not this time. She was too badly injured to get out of this one alive. Her comm had been compromised, and now she was completely alone save for the agent standing in front of her, arrow nocked and drawn. She was trapped, and this time, there was no escape. 

 

He had cleverly stripped her of all her weapons one at a time. She had brought only a few necessities on the mission: a piano wire, two grenades, three pistols, a vial of cyanide, and her own body.

 

Her piano wire had been used to garrote the first opponent she had encountered back at the heist. She had used the body, wire still around his neck, to slow down another of her pursuants, leaving the wire behind.

 

Her grenades had proved necessary during the op: one on the way in, as a distraction for her kidnapping the party’s host for interrogation under the guise of rescuing him and giving him medical attention; one on the way out to cover his death, her heist, and her escape as the enemy assassin team had entered.

 

One pistol was out of ammo. The archer had made sure to send other targets her way during the chase, bringing a team of patsies along with him. As soon as she had shot them, she had recognized the sound of bullets hitting Kevlar. His other agents would live, despite her deadly accuracy as a marksman.

 

Another pistol had been shot straight out of her hand by one of the assassin’s arrows. He was disarming her, but also warning her. He showed her his hand: he was an unmatched shot, and he was capable of putting an arrow through her eye then and there, ending her fight.

 

The third pistol, he had wrestled from her in hand-to-hand combat once they had reached the alley. He had knocked the safety during the struggle, and as she flipped over his arm to escape captivity, it had gone off, resulting in the major wound on her leg. In her moment of shock at the pain, he had snatched the weapon from its holster on her hip and tossed it somewhere else in the alley.

 

The vial of cyanide had been crushed during her close quarters fighting in the alley. This archer was the last assassin remaining. She had picked off the rest of his team without too much difficulty, but his tactics had surprised her somewhat. There was something about the way he moved, so smoothly, so anticipatory, that she wondered just how long he had been tracking her, studying her. He seemed to know her fighting style, predict every move she was about to make before she could do it, as if they were partners, not enemies.

 

He had reached fearlessly into her dress, not for any sexual reason, but to fish out the cyanide. He found it, triumphant, and snapped it in his bare hand. He must be waiting to kill her because he wanted information, then. He needed something from her that he couldn’t get unless she was taken alive. 

 

He would probably interrogate her, find out what she had been after, ask who sent her. She was still of some value to him alive, but it was better for him in the end if she was dead, if he could extract her information and then eliminate her. She wasn’t leaving this alley alive, and they both knew it. 

 

“What do you want?” she hissed.

 

“Nothing,” he grunted back. “My orders were search and destroy. You’ve got nothing I want. I saw everything that I needed. My mission has been a success, and it’s time for you to go, now.”

 

... _son of a bitch_. 

 

This whole op had been a setup. _He_ had been in control the whole time. She should have known going in, should have felt that something was _off_ from the start. She berated herself mentally, but knew that what was done, was done. She was compromised.

 

This man wasn’t going to ask any questions or offer threats. He had no questions. He didn’t need her information. She had no value to him alive.

 

She was going to die here, in an alley, and no one would ever realize she was missing. 

 

But why hadn’t the man just shot her already? 

 

She noticed his gaze fixed on her leg, where the deep gash was bleeding profusely. She had been steadily losing blood for a while now, ever since the gun had fired in the alley. She could see in his eyes that he knew she had only minutes before she bled out. 

 

He didn’t lower his weapon, just kept staring intently at her leg where the life was flowing out of her by the second.

 

Her vision started to go blurry. She collapsed, no longer able to stave off the effects of her injuries. She saw him shift slightly, and just before she completely blacked out, she thought, _This is it. I’m going to die here tonight, alone._

 

_Maybe he’ll stick around to make sure I die._

 

_When I’m dead, he can bring me in. When I’m dead, I’ll be what he wants._

 

\--------------

 

3-- _Clint_

 

_There's a boy here in town, says he'll love me forever,_

_Who would have thought forever could be severed by_

_The sharp knife of a short life, well,_

_I've had just enough time_

 

Clint huddled into the corner of their--no, not _theirs_ anymore, _his--_ trailer and wedged himself underneath the table. It wasn’t fair.

 

_It wasn’t fair._

 

Barney was _gone._ He was gone, and he wasn’t coming back. Barney was his brother. And he _left._ He left him all alone. How was he supposed to do the act on his own? Clint never ever missed, but really, how impressive was that on its own? There was no show, no _entertainment_ , when it was just him. No one came to see a scrawny kid shooting things. He was worthless on his own.

 

No one else in the circus cared about him at all. Family circus, yeah right. Most of them probably didn’t even realize that Clint was part of the show. Those who did thought he was just some stupid kid tagging along with his big brother, the real talent of the act. 

 

Barney had been the only one who had cared. Barney was the only one who said _I love you._ He whispered it to Clint in the middle of the night, but only when he thought his baby brother was long since asleep. Clint never knew why he did it like that, but every night he would stay up past the point of exhaustion and pretend to sleep just for a chance to hear those words again, as if it was the last time he ever would.

 

_I love you. I will always love you. It’ll all be okay. Don’t worry, you’ll always be my little brother, my Hawkeye._

 

Clint sniffled, burying his head in his arms. He _had_ heard those words for the last time. 

 

There would be no more late night stories. No more archery practice, no more sparring lessons. No more nicknames or teasing; no more laughter, or pranks, or hugs, or smiles. 

 

No more _Barney._

 

All he had left of him was the knife. That stupid ornamental knife. The one family heirloom. Passed down from his great-grandfather to his grandfather to his dad to Barney. 

 

And now to him. 

 

Barney had left it for _him._

 

All he had seen when he had walked into the trailer was that knife on his pillow, but he had known. He had known instantly that Barney was gone, that he had left. Clint hadn’t needed to look around the trailer to know that his brother’s meager possessions would be gone from their places. The dagger said it all. Barney had left, and he wasn’t coming back for Clint. Not ever again.

 

Funny, how “always” had seemed so much longer back then.

 

He had enough life experience to understand what loss meant. He had felt loss before when his parents died, but this didn’t feel like that. This felt like missing a limb, like someone had ripped off his arm and told him everything that gave him value in life was never coming back. He had lived enough time with just Barney to understand why he felt that way. Just long enough to understand what it might mean for him to be _alone._ Last time, he still had Barney. He had never been _alone_ before. 

 

Clint lifted his head, sharp eyes automatically drawn to the knife, still sitting on his pillow. He couldn’t bring himself to touch it. That would make it real. If it was real, then Barney really was gone for good. But he couldn’t be gone. Why the hell would he have left? What could possibly have made him go? 

 

He couldn’t be gone, he just couldn’t. If he was, what could possibly have made him _leave Clint behind?_

 

Maybe if Clint left it alone long enough, he would wake up, and Barney would be there to calm him. He would tease him, say _Of course_ _I’ll never leave you alone, what were you thinking? You wouldn’t survive three days without me, I have to stick around and watch your back. Quit moping and let’s go get some practice in, little brother_.

 

He shut his eyes tight, pinching his arm and chanting to himself, “Wake up. It’s just a dream. I’m not alone. Just wake up. I’m not alone. I can’t be. Barney said so, he said I’ll never be alone.” 

 

He opened his eyes to the knife on his pillow.

 

Maybe that was his answer. 

 

\---------------------

 

4-- _Tony_

 

_If I die young, bury me in satin_

_Lay me down on a bed of roses_

_Sink me in the river, at dawn_

_Send me away with the words of a love song_

 

Tony threw himself on his bed, sobbing. His parents had forgotten his birthday, again. Jarvis was taking care of the party plans, as usual. He had been fielding calls from the media all day. There were photographers and reporters lining up outside the house, waiting to catch a glimpse of the young Stark heir and his party guests.

 

His mother was sleeping off a hangover for the third morning in a row. Tony knew better than to disturb her, or to expect that she might care about his birthday. His father was downstairs, locked away in his workshop. Unlike his mother, his father would still be flat-out drunk.

 

Tony knew he should be used to this by now. This was the fourth time he remembered this happening on his birthday. He had a feeling it had happened before then, too, but that he had been too young for the memory to burn like the recent occurrences had. 

 

So what if his parents couldn’t be bothered to remember his _birthday_? He was probably lucky if they _ever_ remembered he was alive.

 

That thought should have made him cry harder, but he found himself laughing spitefully instead. They might not even notice if he ran away. He could do whatever he wanted and they might never know where he went. He could be anywhere, and they probably wouldn’t realize he was gone until it was too late.

 

He’d get a fancy funeral, that was for sure. They would custom order him a new tuxedo to be buried in, and the memorial would become a massive media event fixated on the tragedy. He could imagine the headlines, _Starks’ Only Son: America Weeps for the Lost Genius._ Everyone would pity his parents, say how awful it was that they had lost him. He bet they wouldn’t change a thing in their schedules if he died. And why would they? For them, life would continue on as if nothing _had_ changed. 

 

A wave of exhaustion hit him suddenly and his hysterics gave way to soft sniffles. He wrapped his arms around himself tightly in the closest thing to a hug he could get and let himself imagine for a moment.

 

Sometimes he really did feel as if he was dying on the inside. Jarvis was occasionally able to cheer him up when he got like this, but usually Tony was just left with an empty ache and burning questions. Most of the time, he was pretty sure he didn’t actually want the answers. 

 

He had a feeling he already knew them, anyway. 

 

Would anyone really miss him if something happened to him? Would anyone mourn him? Would anyone be there to say goodbye? To say he meant something to them?

 

To say they loved him? 

 

_To mean it?_

 

Without thinking, he sprung from the bed, dashed downstairs, and fled from the house. He snuck past all the employees inside and the security cameras that he knew encompassed the grounds. He ran down the street and found himself in the nearby park. It was oddly deserted for the middle of the day, especially given the bright, cheery weather that so starkly opposed Tony’s mood and thoughts.

 

He slowed down, panting, and noticed that he was not entirely alone. He wandered over to the only other person in the park, a despondent looking man hunched over on a bench. He looked to Tony as if he could also use the company. Tony was talking before the man even realized he was there, an outpouring of words kept bottled up too long, because finally someone was there to _listen_. 

 

The man stared at him bemusedly for a minute, before a strange gleam entered his eyes.

 

“Hey... you’re that Stark kid, right?”

 

Tony’s eyes widened.

 

The man’s hand suddenly shot out and clamped around Tony’s mouth. He tried to twist away, but the man was faster, trapping his hands in a grip like a steel vice. Tony struggled, filled with panic and betrayal as the man picked up his tiny body effortlessly, carrying him out of the park. His captor nearly dropped him as he fumbled open the trunk of a car, and Tony let out a yell--but no one was there to hear him scream, to _listen to him--_ and then he was unceremoniously dropped into the trunk, the light disappearing as the lid was closed with a thunk. The floor rumbled, then he felt everything around him lurch forward. 

 

He had been kidnapped. He was trapped and alone in the trunk of a car, and he was being taken god-knows-where.

 

Maybe some of those questions he had would finally get answered.

 

Too bad he didn’t think he would be around to see it.

 

_My parents will call a national day of mourning. Jarvis will cry, but he’ll hide it so Father doesn’t fire him for showing such a weakness. I’ll be dressed to the nines for burial after they find my body--if they ever find me. I’ll finally get all the attention they never gave me. Even if it’s just for the one day, maybe they’ll finally notice and feel something. Maybe they’ll finally say they love me._

 

_Maybe it will be true._

 

\------------------

 

5-- _Steve_

 

_Lord make me a rainbow, I'll shine down on my mother_

_She'll know I'm safe with you when she stands under my colors, oh,_

_And life ain't always what you think it ought to be, no_

_Ain't even grey, but she buries her baby_

 

Steve lay still, weakly coughing. He had been bedridden for over a week now. Never in his life had he felt so terrible. Everything ached, even places he didn’t know a person _could_ ache. He tried to sit up to grab the small cup of water his mother had left him to soothe his dry throat. His arms gave out on him entirely and he collapsed back into his thin mattress. 

 

Another coughing fit hit him, shaking his whole body. He could hear the springs in the mattress creak as his insignificant form jostled with the force of his illness. He tried to call out to his mom or Bucky to help him get a drink, but his lungs were burning and he couldn’t get enough air. He lay, gasping and panting for breath, sweat making his ratty clothes stick to his clammy body. He felt as if he was suffocating, getting trapped, drowning, freezing--

 

Sometimes he found it hard to believe he was still alive. He had been in and out of the hospital all his life, but this time the illness seemed somehow worse. His mother had two jobs, but she still couldn’t afford to pay off his last hospital bill. The hospital had denied him admission based on the outstanding balance on his mom’s account, so he was stuck at home with nothing more than her nursing skills to help him heal. Even then, she had to continue working both jobs so she could afford to keep feeding him, hoping to nurse her baby back to some semblance of health. 

 

Normally Bucky or one of the neighborhood children would come sit with him while his mom was working, to keep him company and make sure he didn’t die of an asthma attack. This time, though, Bucky and the other kids all still had to go to school and do homework, so there wasn’t anyone around the house. Steve was all alone, and right now, he was pretty sure he was about to die alone.

 

 _Dear God_ , he thought, _please, make this pain go away. I don’t mean the physical pain I’m in, although I sure wouldn’t complain. Please, Sir, just...Mama..._

 

His mom had always worked so hard. She had given him everything she possibly could in life, and he knew she thought that it was never enough. 

 

Maybe it wasn’t. 

 

Steve was alone, sicker than he had ever been before. He hadn’t eaten in two days because he couldn’t hold anything down. He felt terrible, because he knew that his mom had given him part of her portions in her endless but futile attempts to make her son big and strong. She had been working so hard just to put that food on the table in the first place. 

 

_I’m a burden on her, nothing more. She doesn’t deserve this. This is Hell on Earth for her, having another mouth to feed and body to clothe, and a little kid who causes nothing but pain and worry. God, why would you punish her like that? She’s never been anything but good. I know she wants what’s best for me, but what about what’s best for her? Someone has to think of Mama._

 

Steve was sick enough that he wanted to die. He knew his mom would be heartbroken if it happened. Every time he got sick, no matter how hopeless it seemed, he tried to get better just to get that _look_ off her face. She always looked like she thought she had failed, or like someone had squeezed the life right out of her. When he was sick, she still smiled, but only when she thought he might be looking. She always put up a hopeful front for him, but he could see that all the light had gone from her eyes. 

 

This time was the worst he could ever remember. Last night, he heard her cry herself to sleep when she thought he was already out for the night. In truth, everything had just hurt too much and he hadn’t been able to get more than a few restless hours in.

 

He knew she stopped by church every night on her way home from work, just for a few minutes. She always went to church on Sundays, but whenever he got sick, she went every day to pray that God would make him better, let her baby live another day.

 

_If you just take me away, take me home to You, she’ll be okay. She’ll know I’m in a better place. For both of us, really. She won’t have to worry about me anymore, and I won’t have to live knowing I’m making her feel so bad._

 

He didn’t feel bad praying for God to just end it all. Mama wouldn’t hold it against him. She would know they were both better off. He didn’t see himself as a child of God, anyway, created in God’s image. There was no way God would ever make an image, a distorted reflection, so damaged and feeble. He didn’t belong here. Here, he was a dark spot on his mom’s colorful personality. 

 

She was still pretty young. She certainly was young when she had him, and she was remarkably beautiful, radiant, given everything she had seen in her life. She could always easily remarry, have another baby--one that wasn’t such a broken mockery of human life.

 

Maybe if he died sooner rather than later, she would even be able to afford a real burial at his funeral. 

\-----------------

 


	2. Go With Peace and Love

\--------------

+1-- _Thor_

 

_The ballad of a dove_

_Go with peace and love_

_Gather up your tears, keep 'em in your pocket_

_Save 'em for a time when you're really gonna need 'em_

_The sharp knife of a short life, well_

_I've had just enough time_

_So put on your best, boys, and I'll wear my pearls._

 

Thor woke up, shaking himself from a daze. He couldn’t move. There was something incredibly heavy across his chest, holding him down. Struggling to lift his head, he looked down his body and saw that it was a steel beam from a building that had collapsed during the battle. He supposed, in a way, that it was lucky he was the one hit by the beam. None of his fellow warriors could have survived a blow like that, with their fragile Midgardian bodies.

 

He mustered up the strength to push the heavy weight off his torso. His armor was dented, but the injuries he had sustained in the battle and the aftermath wouldn’t take long to heal.

 

“Shield brothers!” he called, climbing to his feet. “Are you alright? Is anyone out there?” 

 

No response.

 

“Avengers, assemble!”

 

No response.

 

He began to search the wreckage of the battlefield for any sign of his friends. He had lost his communicator at some point during the battle and didn’t know where to even look for the last known locations of his teammates. Thor dug through the piles of rubble with his bare hands, careful in case there was a person buried who might get crushed or have their injuries aggravated. 

 

He searched for hours. There was no one else in the area. It was as if every civilian, soldier, officer of the law, and SHIELD agent had been taken off the planet. No one, Avenger or otherwise, responded to his calls and cries for help. He was completely alone.

 

He had found two of his teammates. _Their bodies._ He knew the other three had to be out there somewhere. If he was lucky, he supposed, the other three had been taken from the scene by rescuers, for medical help. Maybe then the site had been cleared and Thor, along with his fallen teammates, had been left for dead. It would have been an honorable death if he had died in battle, and he was glad for his friends that at least their time had ended while they were fighting for what they believed in, protecting their brethren and their home.

 

Still, he didn’t let up in his methodical search of the area. Another few hours of solitude and digging revealed a third body, then a fourth. His fragile hope that his last teammate had escaped unscathed or been rescued was slowly crumbling the longer he searched without a sign. He continued on, not giving up yet.

 

Another hour, another body.

 

Thor laid out his friends near one another and checked over their injuries. He was no healer, and he had a particularly poor understanding of Midgardian physiological weakness. Perhaps they could still be saved? Maybe there was a chance that he had found them, even just one of them, in time.

 

He didn’t know how much time had passed since he first awoke, but it was now long since dark outside. No one had come to the scene of the fight. None of the bodies had stirred.

 

A sharp anger suddenly filled him.

 

“Loki!” he cried to the skies. “Come face what you have done, coward!”

 

He shook with the force of his rage, feeling as if his passion alone could bring his fallen friends back to life. He roared in anguish, no words leaving him. There were no words that could possibly describe how he felt in that moment.

 

It seemed as if time had suddenly stopped. His cry seemed to echo infinitely, hanging in the air like the stench of death and decay, reaching everything in the vicinity and tainting it with its malignant touch.

 

All the anger fled from him as quickly as it had entered. He crumpled to his knees, teeth gritted and hands clenched. His head dropped with the force of the impact, his chin bumping the chestplate of his armor, hard.

 

“Is this what you wanted, brother?” he called. “Is this pain you have caused me enough for you yet? Were the lives of my friends worth the price of your revenge?”

 

He didn’t expect an answer, and for the first time, his once-brother did not disappoint.

 

He pulled himself together as much as he could and rose to a standing position. “I see,” he said at last. “You were my brother. I loved you. I tried to bring you back home, I wanted to _save_ you. Look where we are. Our home is no more. Asgard lays in waste, nothing more than our memories remain.” 

 

He glanced at the bodies of his fallen comrades, neatly lined up as a gesture of respect for fallen warriors. “I once was sent to this land to learn humility. I can admit when I am mistaken.” 

 

He gazed up at the sky, recalling all the events that had led to this moment. He was a warrior. He had lost soldiers before, but this was different. This time, it wasn’t an expected casualty or collateral damage.

 

“I was wrong about you.” 

 

He felt himself unexpectedly fighting to hold back tears. The loss of his companions stung in a way that no battle on Asgard ever had. These were but five fallen souls. This was a battle, not a war. Midgard was safe, at least for the moment. In that, he had not failed.

 

“You cannot be saved.” 

 

He allowed his defenses to fall as the truth of the situation hit home. The honest reality of the fact was that these people had been his friends, his family. They were not faceless warriors or members of the kingdom expected to follow his command. These were people who chose to join battles that should have been beyond their capabilities, yet triumphed anyway. 

 

Or, at least, they had before. Never before had he lost at true shield brother--no, _teammate, family_ \--in battle.

 

The only other time he could ever recall feeling like this seemed as if it was lifetimes ago, when he found out Loki had stolen the Tesseract and declared war on Midgard.

 

“You could never be saved.”

 

It had been there, right in front of him, all along. 

 

His tears began to overflow, silently running down his face into his beard. He was not weak for crying at the loss. Midgardian custom did not look down on a man for having and showing his emotions. This family had taught him that. He could mourn them properly and pay respects to their memories without tarnishing anyone’s honor.

 

“You are not my brother.”

 

He did not weep for Loki. Not anymore. These tears were shed only for those who deserved them. 

 

“In my youth, I courted war...”

 

He was no longer sure to whom he spoke. A chill had descended in the air, an almost pleasant numbness blanketing his body. He could feel the cool trails of tear tracks on his face, but the stinging in his eyes had dulled.

 

War never came without a price. Thor had lived and fought long enough, seen enough, to know that. Gone was his naivete. His pride no longer held him back from success. He had learned much in his many years, and seen many who died in disgrace after failing to learn those same lessons.

 

This constant fighting could not be the answer. It could only cause pain and suffering in the end.

 

He slowly composed himself, collecting his thoughts. The scents of sweat and blood mingled, the heavy mixture clawing at his already raw nerves. He walked the wrecked battlefield, collecting the weapons his friends had dropped as they were taken down in battle. He placed each weapon gently down beside its owner. 

 

The flash of a gun going off, the glint of a knife before it breached skin, the graceful tension of a bowstring before it snapped--all these images were burned firmly in his mind’s eye. The whistle of a shield as it sailed past, the whine of repulsor fire cutting through the air, the roar of a beast--these sounds would surely haunt his nightmares for eternity. He knew he would not soon forget the sound of his family’s voices as they chattered and bantered during battle, carefree and happy.

 

 _Alive_.

 

But they were not just battles, were they? _Missions_ , the team had called them. They were jobs that had to be done, and no one else was able to do them. There was a dedication and determination in a mission that war did not have. His family volunteered for these missions. They volunteered to receive orders. They knew the risks. They made the choice. He had to respect that choice and live with the consequences. He had known them, too. They had died valiantly, paying the ultimate price and sacrificing themselves so others could live on.

 

Wars were won through battles. Battles were fought by warriors and soldiers. Soldiers did not pick their battles. They went where they were needed, and they could know what to expect from any given fight. A soldier was always on duty in war.

 

His family were not soldiers. There were those among them who had once been soldiers, but as the Avengers, they had been so much more. They fought the battles no other Midgardian ever could. They did not fight only to defend a cause someone else told them existed. They fought for what was truly right, defending their home from unpredictable threats, often with no warning. 

 

And now Thor was alone. Asgard was gone. Loki was gone. His Midgardian family was gone. There was nothing left that he loved here. He should have died honorably with his family, but now he was on his own. 

 

The burden of that knowledge would not soon leave him.

 

He had spent the last years of their lives with them. It wasn’t enough time. How could any time with those you loved ever be enough? But he had to let them go. There was nothing he could do. Those few years would have to be enough.

 

Every creature received his lot in life. Thor’s lifespan was incongruous with the brevity of those of his friends, a lamentable thought he had never truly considered the implications of before. He had no choice but to consider them now. 

 

Perhaps someday he would join them in the halls of Valhalla. In the meantime, he would see them all buried properly, as he had so many before them in his immortal life. 

 

He let out a heavy, pensive sigh.

 

“In my youth I courted war, but never before did I imagine that, in my eternal youth, I would wish to welcome death.”

\------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by The Band Perry's "If I Die Young"
> 
> Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7NJqUN9TClM
> 
> All lyrics belong to them.


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